


Years 2010/2011

by Luna_Hart



Series: Snapshots [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Arguing, Brock's childhood, Brock's insecurities, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Disputes, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Drunk Drivers (past), Emotions, Fluff, HYDRA Husbands, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurities, Love Confessions, M/M, Makeup Sex, Past Character Death, Swearing, good guy Brock Rumlow, good guy Jack Rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-22 05:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11373372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: A collection of moments in the lives of Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollings:Exhausting missions, near breakups and makeups. The stories behind the scars. When Jack met Sam Wilson. Brock's childhood, and Don't Ask Don't Tell.





	1. March, 2010

Jack slumped down against the curved bulkhead of the V-22 Osprey aircraft that had picked them up about 20 klicks outside of Takoi near the South Sudanese border. He was so tired he didn't even bother to take the seat an inch to his left, opting instead for just sliding down to the floor. He was tired, sweaty, dusty, and did he mention tired? 

He grabbed the bottle of water the co-pilot thrust into his hands and drained half of it in one gulp. It had been a singularity difficult mission, with long treks through unfriendly and hot terrain, spontaneous firefights which miraculously injured no one on their side.

And to top it off, their EVAC was three days late, and about 2000 kilometres farther south. It had taken them a full day and a half with no rest to get there. 

Jack slowly sipped the rest of the water as the rest of STRIKE stumbled in. Hunter nearly fell on his face, tripping on nothing but than his own feet, and Murphy’s nose was peeling from a nasty sunburn. 

Brock brought up the rear, chewing out the co-pilot something fierce before slumping into a seat across and down from Jack. He set his M4A1 rifle on the seats and slumped forward. He braced his elbows on his knees and hung his head. He gave it a big shake, sand literally pouring from the dark locks. 

Jack rubbed grit from his eyes and opened one of the smaller pockets in his tac vest. He checked no one was paying attention to him, and pulled out a small disposable camera. He often snuck a little disposable with him on missions that were least sensitive. He made sure he was careful with it. S.H.I.E.L.D. support team would freak if they knew he was taking pictures on missions, but he was very careful with what his subjects were and besides, what headquarters didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. 

He glanced around. The flight crew were in the cockpit prepping for takeoff. Hunter was curled up across the seats and already snoring, and Murphy had his back to Jack. Brock was staring into the space about six inches above the floor at his feet. 

He raised the little camera and snapped a photo. He tucked it safely back into its pocket before anyone noticed. The engines roared as they started up and Jack thought that he should probably get a proper seat. 

He looked up at the seat next to him and decided it was much to far away. He tucked his hands into the sides of his vest, rested his chin on his chest, and closed his eyes. 

 

The next time he opened his eyes was at the thump of the plane touching down. He found himself lying on his side, an emergency blanket tucked under his head. He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Brock was already on his feet, gently shaking Hunter awake and slapping Murphy’s hand away from his peeling nose. 

A hand thrust itself into his field of vision and he clasped it. He found himself yanked to his feet. Brock slapped a hand on his shoulder, rising a small cloud of dust, before walking down the ramp and out into the chilly Washington air. 

Three hours later and he was stumbling through the door of his and Brock’s apartment. Brock had stayed behind to finish up the paperwork and Director Fury had requested an in-person briefing. Jack did not envy Brock that side of the job.  
He kicked off his boots and collapsed on the couch. He was asleep before his head hit the cushion. 

Jack awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright. He shook his head, chasing away the last clinging remnants of the nightmare. Or memory. Sometimes it was really hard to tell. He took a deep, steadying breath and took in his surroundings. 

It was dark outside and Brock still wasn’t home. Jack poked his head into the bedroom, but the bed was empty, covers rumpled because neither he nor Brock understood the reason of making a bed if it’ll just get messed again in a few hours. 

Jack made his way to the bathroom. He felt like he was wading through sand. For that matter, he felt like he had bathed in sand, which in a way he had.  
Everything felt gritty. He had poured what felt like the entire dessert out of his combat boots when he had changed back at headquarters. 

He turned the shower on as hot as it would go and slowly stripped off his clothes as steam filled the room and fogged up the mirror.  
He stepped under the spray, wincing as the water hit the multiple scrapes and scratches he had picked up during the last five days. He stood there for a long time, just letting the water beat against his sore muscles and chase away the stiffness. 

It was a testament to how bone-tired Jack was because he didn’t hear the front door open, nor the jangle of keys being tossed onto the counter. He also didn’t hear the bathroom door click open, or the soft swish of clothing against skin. 

He did however notice when the shower door opened. He flinched and spun, knocking over shampoo bottles and that stupid loofa Brock had insisted on buying. 

“Easy,” Brock murmured as he closed the shower door behind him. 

He had adopted saying that from Jack. Jack was always saying it — to calm a rookie on his first mission; to steady STRIKE before the command to move; to the skittish dog always tied up outside the corner pub; to Brock when he ran his hands along the smaller man’s thighs, muscles strung tight and quivering with sensation. 

“Fuck,” he spit as Brock picked up the bottles Jack had just knocked over and stacked them on the little shelf in the tiled wall. “Don’t fucking do that!” 

“Sorry,” Brock said with that shit-eating grin of his that meant he wasn’t sorry in the slightest. Brock nudged Jack to the side and slipped under the spray himself. 

It was something that both of them agreed to splurge on during the renovations that had taken place the previous year. A bigger shower, one that could comfortably fit both of them.  
Jack watched as Brock leaned forward, bracing his hands on the wall, and let the hot water pour over his back and shoulders. 

Jack could now tell how tired Brock really was. He always put on a show for the team, being the strong presence that never faltered, never failed.  
But now, in the safety of home, Brock’s shoulders slumped forward and his whole body radiated exhaustion. Small tremors ran through his muscles, as it merely standing was too much effort anymore. 

Jack grabbed one of the shampoo bottles and squeezed a dollop of the soap out into his palm. He lathered his hands as he stepped forward before sliding them into Brock’s thick black locks.  
He scratched against the shorter mans scalp, prompting a low moan out of Brock. 

Jack worked his fingers through the hair, untangling every last bit before spinning Brock around. He cupped a hand against the back of the other man’s skull and tipped his head back into the spray. His other hand worked out the soap and every bit of grit. Brock closed his eyes and relaxed back into Jack’s hand. 

After they had both scrubbed away every last bit of dust away, twice, they dried off and stumbled to the bedroom. Jack pulled on a pair of worn of sweatpants while Brock brushed his teeth and they both climbed into bed. 

Brock collapse face-first into the duvet, the very last ounce of stamina having drained from his body. Jack chuckled as he wrestled the covers from under Brock’s unresponsive body. The man did nothing to help, actually hindering the process as he tried to swat Jack’s hands away. Jack shook his head and maneuvered the other man into a more traditional position for sleep. Finally, Jack was able to pull the covers over both of them. 

He snuggled up against Brock’s back, perfectly fitting against him. Brock hummed, reaching back and hooking a hand over Jack’s thigh. Jack buried his face in the back of Brock’s neck. The only response he got was a soft snore.  
Jack chuckled softly and closed his own eyes, falling into a dreamless sleep.


	2. November, 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-worked this chapter since I posted it. I had written it in a hurry and upon reflection, it had a gone down a path that wasn't where I wanted the character's to go.

Jack was done. Four and a half years of his life gone, just like that, and for what? He didn’t ask for much, he really didn’t. He understood that with their job and the people they worked with, discretion was the better course of action when it came to his relationship with Brock. He wasn’t asking for grand gestures, or public displays, or sappy declarations.

All Jack was asking was, in the privacy of their own home, for Brock not to push him away at the first signs of genuine intimacy. He wanted to be able to hold the other man in his arms while they slept and not have sarcastic quips snapped in his direction. He wanted to not be made to feel weak for wanting that.

And just when Jack felt like things where going nowhere, that Brock was just using him for a convenient lay for the last four fucking years, then the older man would flip the tables on him and do something so out of character. Like his declaration in the cabin after Jack had been injured a few years back.

The words ‘I can’t lose you,’ still sometimes echoed in Jack’s head.

Or the handful of mornings after that night when Jack had woken up to Brock in his arms, and the other man hadn’t pulled away.

Or after Jack’s mother had passed away. Brock had held Jack long through that night, gently carding fingers through Jack’s hair. When he was bone tired or injured, Brock would curl up against Jack’s side, hooking a leg or a hand over the younger man’s thigh.

It never lasted though. Brock blew hot and then cold at a moments notice. A few weeks after the cabin declaration, things were back to their old habits. Brock would pull away in the morning, grumbling about Jack being too clingy, and Jack would pretend that it didn’t feel like someone had kicked him in the gut.

Jack had put up with a lot from Brock, trying to understand, trying to be patient, but now he was done.  

Jack was sitting on the couch with his laptop and Brock was curled up in the loveseat beside him, watching sports highlights.  
“We should go away over Christmas,” Jack commented, an email about a promotional offer on flights to Hawaii during December catching his eye.  
“Hmm?” Brock said in reply, only half paying attention.  
“Flights will be cheap. It’d be nice.”  
Brock snorted. “What, like a couple of fucking queers? Come on Jackie, that’s not our style.”  
Jack didn’t say anything in reply. In fact, he didn’t even feel that angry. He just felt tired. 

Jack closed the laptop with a snap and headed for the door. He had his shoes on and was grabbing his keys and jacket before Brock even noticed.  
“Jack, where are you—?” The rest where cut off as Jack snapped the door shut behind him.  
He made his way quickly out into the cold street, pulling his phone from his pocket. A few rings and then he heard a murmured greeting. He hesitated only a moment before replying.

“Hey, you home?”

 

Twenty minutes later and he was standing in a warm and bright kitchen. Trish was at the kitchen counter, pouring boiling water into two mugs for tea. Jack had offered to help, but she had waved him away, saying she was perfectly capable. She wheeled herself over and handed him the steaming mug. He offered with a muttered thanks.

He glanced around her apartment. He hadn’t been over since he had helped her move in, assisting with the renovations that allowed her to be almost completely self-sufficient. She had insisted it wasn’t necessary, but Brock had insisted right back. STRIKE took care of their own.

He and Brock along with Hunter, Evans, and a few contractors had set her up with all the bells and whistles. They had installed new kitchen counters and cupboards, all lower than standard so that Trish could easily reach everything from her wheelchair. A wall had been knocked down to expand the bathroom into the office, and state of the art security system had been hooked up. Trish had protested the loudest about that, but no one payed her any attention.

Trish waved him over to the living room, following with her own mug of tea. Jack sat gingerly at the end of the couch as Trish made herself comfortable beside him, locking her wheels in place.

“So, what’s with the surprise visit?” She asked, blowing gently on her tea. “Not that I’m complaining, but it’s a little late for the typical social call.”  
“Sorry,” Jack said gruffly, taking a sip of tea and wincing as it burned his tongue.  
“Just said I wasn’t complaining, just curious,” Trish admonished. “So, what’s going on? Something’s up, I can tell.”

Jack just shrugged, staring down at his mug.  
“It’s about Brock, isn’t it,” Trish said, insightfully. Jack huffed a sigh and shrugged again. As usual, Trish saw right through him. She was scarily perceptive. “I thought so. What happened?”

Jack hesitated, but Trish was patient and didn’t push him. Eventually, he spilled everything; all of his frustrations just bubbling from his lips. It was very therapeutic and Trish was a good listener. She had a way of listening and giving advice in a way that didn’t feel judgemental or condescending.  
Jack supposed that it made sense she had found her new career path in therapy and counselling, working a lot at the VA with returning veterans, helping them re-adjust to life stateside.

Trish waited until he had finished, tea long since forgotten and gone cold. “Have you talked to him about any of this? About how he's been making you feel?"

Jack shook his head, staring intently down at his hands. Trish sighed.

“What do you want from him?” Trish locked her eyes intently on Jack’s face. 

“I want…” he trailed off, unsure and embarrassed. Trish didn’t say anything, just waited calmly for him to finish.

“I just want him," he finished simply.

“So tell him.”

Jack looked up startled. Trish fixed him with a look. "Tell him exactly what you told me. How what he says, regardless of the intent behind it, hurts you. It isn't fair to you. Look, maybe it isn't my place to say, and it doesn't excuse anything, but Brock had a pretty rough childhood. He had to learn to protect himself, to bury anything that could be considered a weakness behind sharp words. He's scared, Jack." 

Jack barked a sharp laugh. "He isn't the only one with shitty childhood memories," he muttered. 

"I said it wasn't an excuse." Trish reminded. "All I'm saying is that the best thing you can do is get him to talk about it. Or get him to come see me. Actually, that would probably be a good idea either way, and if not me than I have a few names I can give you."

Trish reached over a hand and laced her small fingers through Jack's and squeezed. “Don’t let too many things go unsaid until it’s too late.”

Jack stared at her before huffing another laugh. “You’re pretty good at this, you know”

“I know,” Trish said with a smirk. “That’s what they pay me for.”

 

A few hours later and Jack slipped quietly back into the apartment. Brock didn’t even glance up from his seat in the living room. Jack could have sworn the man hadn’t moved since he left if it hadn't been for the empty beer bottles now strewn across the coffee table.  
Brock drained the last dregs from the bottle in his hand before setting it down.

“You get that twist out of your panties yet?” He said sharply, the smirk on his face doing nothing to lessen the sting of the words. Jack clenched his jaw as he toed off his boots.  
“Why do you do that?” He asked, planting his feet and crossing his arms across his chest. He stared across the room at the other man who was doing a good job of not looking at him.

“Do what?”

“Say shit like that.” Jack growled.

“What are you on about?” Brock drawled, finally glancing across the room.  
Jack clenched his fists before sighing, whatever anger he had built up draining from his body. He was too tired for this right now.

“You know what, forget it,” he said quietly, tossing his keys on the counter. He didn't want to fight with Brock, not tonight.  
It seem that Brock, however, was spoiling for a fight. He hopped up from the couch and stalked across the room.

“Oh no, you don’t get off the hook that easily, kid,” Jack gritted his teeth, grinding his back molars so hard his jaw creaked. Brock only called him kid when he really wanted to get under Jack’s skin. He was five years Brock’s junior, not some fucking child to be lectured.

“What was that about? First you’re all mushy and wanting to go on vacations, the next you’re—“

“Are you ashamed of me? Of us?” Jack interrupted quietly, the anger he had felt before slowly coming back. That brought the older man up short. He gaped up at Jack, before stammering out a reply.

“What the fuck kinda talk is that? Ashamed of you, I don’t—,”

“That’s not an answer,” Jack growled. He took a step forward, looming over the shorter man. He could have sworn Brock paled a little, rocking back a little on his heels.

“What do you want me to say, Jack?” Brock demanded.

“Nothing!” Jack snapped. “Something! Fuck, anything! I don’t know!”

“Clearly!” Brock snapped back. “Jesus, where the fuck is this coming from?”

“Four years,” Jack growled, hands clenching into fists. “Four years I’ve been here, right in front of you. Four years, waiting for you to wake up and get over yourself. Four fucking years, Brock!”

He took a step forward but Brock planted a hand square on his chest, keeping him at arms length. The fight seemed to have drained out of the shorter man, but that did nothing but boost Jack’s anger even more.

“Okay, I get it.” Brock said quietly, but Jack was on a roll now. He grabbed Brock’s wrist, yanking the other man closer.

“No, I don’t think you fucking get it," Jack snapped.

Brock twisted from his grip and have him a hard shove. Jack rocked back on his heels, but the shove did nothing but put more fuel on the fire.

“What do you want from me? You want me to hold you, stroke your hair, and tell you how pretty you are?” Brock sneered. “I’m no fucking fag.”

“Oh, no?” Jack growled. “My dick up your ass wasn’t enough to convince you otherwise?" 

"Fuck you," Brock ground out through clenched teeth, a red flush creeping up his neck. 

"Naw, fuck you," Jack spat, stalking past Brock and into the bedroom. He grabbed his go bag from the closet and began throwing random clothes inside. He grabbed his toothbrush from the bathroom and stalked out of the bedroom.

He walked towards the door, past a surprised looking Brock, and slipped his feet back into his boots.

"What...what are you doing?" Brock stammered, any anger drained out of him in a flash, replaced by barely-concealed panic. 

“What does it look like?” Jack snapped. Before he could take even a step, another hand reached out and latched onto the bags strap next to his.

Jack looked back at Brock, but the other man’s eyes were glued to the floor. 

“Don’t,” Brock whispered.

“Why?” Jack asked, all of a sudden feeling very tired. There was no reply. Brock wouldn’t even look at him. Jack scoffed and turned to leave. He was tugged back by Brock’s iron grip on the bag.

“I can’t lose you,” was the reply, so quiet that Jack almost missed it.

“You’ve said that before,” Jack said flatly.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Brock finally admitted quietly. Jack’s eyes snapped up to Brock’s face. He felt Brock’s grip on the bag tighten and the shorter man took a long, shaky breath before continuing.

“This….,” he gestured weakly between himself and Jack. Brock’s eyes flittered around the room, occasionally landing on Jack before glancing away. “I just…I can’t…I don’t know how to…” Brock stumbled, breathing heavily. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, a nervous habit he had picked up lately.

“Say it.” Brock startled at the sound of Jack’s voice. Jack himself was started by the roughness of it. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I can’t lose you—,”

“Not good enough,” Jack interrupted. “You’ve said that before. Nothings changed.”

“Jack,” Brock said breathily, panic rolling across his dark eyes. “You gotta give me a little time here…”

“Four years isn’t enough time?” Jack whispered, throat painfully tight.

Brock apparently had no reply for that. His mouth opened and closed. His grip loosened a little on the bag and Jack took his opportunity. He wrenched it free and stalked to the door. He closed it behind him before collapsing against the wall beside. The bag dropped at his feet and his knees buckled. He slid down to the floor. Jack swiped a hand across his stinging eyes. How had it all gotten so fucked up?

 

 

Jack wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but it felt like he had just closed his eyes before the sound of a door opening jerked them back open. He glanced around wildly. Early morning light was filtering in from the window at the end of the hall.

“Oh, my!”  
A gentle voice made Jack scramble to his feet. Across the way and slightly down the hall, an elderly woman stood in her doorway, bundled against the cold with a Spaniel sitting by her feet. She had a leash in her hand and look at Jack with wide eyes.

“You lock yourself out, dear?” She asked kindly, locking her apartment behind her.

“Ummm, no…I,” Jack mumbled, wiping grit from his eyes. The Spaniel bounded over to his feet and sat, tail wagging. Jack knelt obligingly and gave the dog a scratch behind the ears.

He looked up as the woman stepped closer, a gentle smile on her face. “Are you from apartment ten? I heard quite the commotion last night.”

Jack flushed. “I’m sorry for the noise.” Once again, Jack found himself thankful that he and Brock lived in a small apartment complex, one filled with mostly or fully retired tenants. They had no body on their right side, the apartment to their left had been vacant for the last three years, and the gentleman that lived below them was deaf.

“Don’t worry about it, dear.” The woman paused before extending her hand towards him. “I’m Margaret, by the way. I can’t believe I haven’t introduced myself before now.”

“Jack. Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he replied as he gently shook her hand.

She smiled, bending to snap the leash on the Spaniel’s collar. “And this is Rosie.” Rosie thumped her tail on the carpeted floor at the mention of her name. Jack bent to give her another scratch behind the ears. “Hello Rosie.”

“Pleasure to meet you, dear.” Margaret said. “You going to be alright? Looks like you had a rough night.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he mumbled.

“Well,” Margaret said, not looking completely satisfied. “My door is always open, if you need anything.”  
She smiled one last time and then turned and walked down the hall before Jack could formulate a reply, Rosie trotting along at her heels.

Jack took a deep breath and turned back to the door. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself before snatching up his bag and walking back into the apartment.

 

 

He tossed his bag in the corner and toed off his shoes. Jack stepped carefully through to the bedroom. He pushed the door to the bedroom open, peering inside. Brock was curled up on his side on top of the covers. He was still dressed in the jeans and sweater from the night before. If Brock heard him come in, he made no move to acknowledge Jack.

Jack quietly cross the room and crouched down in front of the other man.

Brock’s eyes were open, puffy and red-rimmed. Jack had never seen the other man look so vulnerable, not ever. Jack opened his mouth to say something, something along the lines of Brock was being a dumbass and that Jack was tired of being yanked around, but Brock beat him to it. 

“I love you.”

Those three little words stopped Jack dead. His brain seemed to freeze and he stared blankly into Brock’s eyes. Brock’s hand reached for Jack, stroking through his hair. Brock took a deep breath before saying it again.

“I love you. And I can’t lose you. I don’t know what I would do without you. I’ve never cared this much about anyone, and it scares the shit outta me,” came the whispered confession. 

"You scare the shit outta me," Brock whispered. "I've never...been with someone for this long before. I....I had to learn....foster care isn't a great place to realize that your....and then joining the military," Brock licked his lips nervously. Jack felt his chest constrict. He reached up and placed his hand on the side of Brock’s jaw, his long fingers wrapping around into the thick, black hair.

"The people I grew up with talked like this, everyone did. I had to, to fit in...to hide and I..fuck, I don't know what I'm saying." Jack rubbed his thumb gently along Brock's sharp cheekbone, encouragingly. 

“I haven’t been fair to you and I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. Fuck, I never think before I speak. I never wanted to hurt you. I don’t…I just know I can’t do this without you, Jackie. I don't want to do this without you." Brock took a deep, shaky breath. 

"It can't happen anymore," Jack whispered, gripping Brock's neck tightly. "It can't. I don't deserve that shit."

  
"No, you don't," Brock whispered as a single tear leaked from the corner of his eye and disappeared into his hairline. "You don't deserve any of it. And I'm so sorry." 

Jack gently wipes away the track of moisture left behind by the tear, Trish's words echoing through his mind: "He's scared, Jack."

"I'm right here, I ain't going anywhere," Jack promised. Brock's breath hitched and the hand on Jack's face shook ever so slightly. "I love you too, jackass."

Brock hiccuped a breathy, watery chuckle and Jack cracked a half smile. 

"You and me till the end, right?” Brock ended on a hesitant note, his voice trailing away in a questioning tone, eyes locked onto Jack’s like he was scared to move lest Jack disappear.

“Always,” Jack whispered, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

“Always,” Brock whispered back.

 

 


	3. February, 2011

It was freezing. Jack had been very tempted to just stay in bed with Brock this morning, but had forced himself to go for his usual run. A heavy beat pounded in his ears as he looped around the Washington monument and headed back towards the Lincoln Memorial. 

His breath came out in small puffs, his heart beating in time with his footfalls. He didn’t know why he had the impulse to turn left and take the long loop around the pool instead of his usual route of cutting across to Virginia Ave but that is exactly what he did. 

It wasn’t long before he noticed he was matching pace with another jogger running on the higher path to his left. Not many people were out and about this early, especially not on a Saturday. This man looked familiar, in his grey air force sweatshirt. It took a second but Jack finally placed him, but something still felt like it was missing.

He had seen the man many times jogging this very path. He had never met him, only nodding an acknowledgement in passing to him and his running partner. 

Then it clicked. That was it. That was the thing that was missing. He had never seen the man run alone. He always ran with another man. Jack’s memory supplied a face; a slightly shorter man with dirty blonde hair and ears that stuck out ever so slightly. 

Both of them kept pace, reaching the end of the trail and meeting up. A friendly nod was exchanged as they both turned right and continued their loop around the pool. 

They fell in step side by side, both taking the lower path close to the water. The other man was breathing heavier than Jack, his technique getting sloppy. Jack chanced a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. The man looked wrecked, dark circles bruising under his eyes. 

They eventually reached the other end of the pond. Jack slowed and came to a halt, taking a deep breath and wincing as the cold air burned his lungs. The other man sat on the step ledge, legs trembling. 

Jack popped his earbuds out of his ears, wiping sweat from his eyes. 

“So, air force huh?” Jack said, not sure what to say but feeling like he should say something. The other man glanced up at him, a little startled. “Yeah,” was the short, out of breath answer. 

“What devision?” Jack asked, fiddling with his earbuds. 

“58th Pararescue,” the man answered shortly, something flickering behind his eyes that Jack saw but couldn’t place. Jack whistled, impressed. “You guys saved my ass a few times in the field.”

“Lemme guess,” the man drawled, finally getting his breath back. “Marines?” Jack chuckled. “Easy, flyboy. I’ve saved your guys just as often.” 

“Somehow I doubt that,” the man said, massaging cramping muscles. “You on leave?”  
Jack shook his head. “Naw, got out a long time ago.”

“Really? Huh,” the man said, sounding surprised. “You?” Jack asked. 

“Two weeks left before I ship back out,” the man replied. There was a long pause, as if the man wanted to say more but didn’t know if he should. Jack waited, stretching out his calves. 

“Why’d you get out?” The man asked. “If it’s not too personal a question.” Jack shook his head and answered as best he could without revealing that he had left to work for a secret organization, who then had him infiltrate another top secret government organization as a sleeper agent. 

“Couldn’t find a reason to stay over there anymore,” Jack replied simply, yet as honestly as he could. “Joined up straight out of high school, it was all I knew, but somehow…I guess I didn’t know why I was fighting anymore.” 

“To be honest, I’m finding myself thinking the same thing.” The mans eyes flicked again. That was a look Jack knew all too well. 

“Who did you lose?” Jack asked as gently as he could. The other man still flinched. He took a deep breath and looked out over the water towards the memorial. 

“Wingman,” he said quietly. “RPG knocked his ass right out of the sky. All I could do was watch.”

Jack hissed in sympathy. “Shit man, that’s rough.” 

“Yeah,” was all the other man said in reply. Jack shifted his weight, not really sure what to do after that revelation. 

“Look,” he started, stopped himself, and then continued on. “It’s not my place but….if you ever need someone to talk to, ask for Trish down at the VA. We used to work together until a IED put her in a wheelchair. She’s a councillor there now. She’s….she gets it.” 

The other man glanced up at him, startled. He stared at him a long moment and Jack wondered if he had gone to far before the other man finally nodded. 

“Thanks,” he said as he stood. He held out a hand to Jack. “Sam Wilson, by the way.”

“Jack,” he replied, gripping the other mans hand. “Take it easy, Sam.”

“You too, Jack.” 

With a friendly nod, both men went their separate ways. Neither one ever expected to see the other again. They would both be in for a big surprise.


	4. May, 2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: This chapter gets super steamy and more than a little descriptive in the bedroom so if M/M isn't your thing...well, why are you reading this in the first place?

They say every photo tells a thousand words, but so do scars.

Every single mark on Jack’s body reminded Brock what a fighter the younger man was. All those moments, toeing the line. That split second difference between life and death, with Jack often holding onto the former by the skin of his teeth.

Some mornings, when Brock had managed to wake up before Jack for once, he would trace the other man’s scars with a feather-light touch, remembering the stories behind each mark. He had to pick his moments carefully. On a usual morning, Jack would wake at the slightest touch, his senses highly strung. A dangerous career tended to do that to a person.

No, Brock always chose the mornings carefully, picking times after a night of heavy drinking or a particularly exhausting mission.

This morning was no different. In fact, it was the perfect morning. They had gotten home late the night before after a gruelling three day mission which involved Jack practically carrying Murphy over a mountain after the other STRIKE member broke his ankle.

The room was chilly in the early morning as Brock wiped sleep from his eyes and let them settle on the sleeping form beside him. It was in these moments Brock could truly take the time to admire the other man.

He carefully, oh so carefully, moved closer and reached a gentle hand to the thin white line that ran from behind Jack’s ear down and down the side of his neck in a jagged line.

That time had been too close. Bogota in the spring a few years back. A man had leapt from the balcony above Jack with a switchblade in his hand. If the blade had been any sharper, if Jack’s reflexes any slower….Brock didn’t like to dwell on it too much.

His hand slowly drifted to the round explosions of knotted scar tissue high up on Jack’s shoulder, and then traced softly down to the matching mark lower down on Jack’s hip. That had happened just the year before.  
They weren’t even on duty, having slipped away for a quick vacation of sun and sand over Christmas. A stupid situation of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Brock couldn't see the pockmark scattering of scars that traced up the side of Jack’s calf, legs hidden as they were under the covers, but he knew it was there.  
It was from a small explosive device that had been triggered by another member of STRIKE. Jack had been the next closest, but had escaped with all his limbs. The other STRIKE member hadn’t been so lucky.  
That was years ago, back before Brock was Commander of STRIKE. The scars had long faded, only showing in the summer when Jack got a tan.

Jack never talked about the nasty looking burn mark on his hip. It was old, really old, long since healed in a sloppy pattern of hardened scar tissue. One night, back in the first few months of their relationship, Brock’s hand had brushed over it in bed and Jack had flinched ever so slightly. He had changed the subject when Brock asked about it later.

Brock didn’t push the topic. Another night, when they were in bed together again, Brock had slide down Jack’s body and pressed his lips deliberately against the scar. Jack’s breath hitched and he cupped the back of Brock’s head, hand gentle instead of his usual iron-grip.

Brock knew the story behind Jack’s facial scars all too well. He had been there, had held Jack in his arms as blood poured from the lacerations out onto the burnt grass. It had been a long recovery, for both of them and not just the physical kind.

 

There was a handful of faint scars hidden in Jack’s shaggy hair along the back of his skull. Brock would feel the ridges if he ran his fingers through the brown locks.

They had been in a bar in Prague celebrating a mission completed when a very drunk mountain of a man took offence to what Brock could only think was Jack’s face.  
He had gotten up in Jack’s face, dwarfing even the tall STRIKE SIC, slurring and spitting something Brock couldn’t understand. Jack must have understood because his fists clenched, and he spat something back in Czech before moving to brush past the man.

The red faced man apparently didn’t like that very much either, and decided the best place to put down his half-empty beer bottle was on the back of Jack’s head.  
It happened so fast that Brock and the rest of STRIKE barely had time to react as the bottle shattered against Jack’s skull, soaking him and the people nearby in cheap, sour-smelling beer.

Brock hadn’t done more than put his own drink down and jump to his feet before Jack had spun around, grabbed the drunk man by the front of his shirt and head butted him with a vicious snap of his head.

The mountain of a man dropped like a sack of stones. It was so quiet you could have heard a flea sneeze. Jack had tossed a few bills on the bar with a muttered apology and stalked out the front door.  
Brock had been the first to snap out of his stupor, grabbing his jacket and chasing after Jack with a few tossed words to STRIKE as he left, urging them to continue their night.

Jack didn’t say anything as Brock caught up with him and began fussing over the state of his head. Jack just rolled his eyes as Brock mother hen-ed the entire walk back to their lodgings.

Once they got back, he sat Jack down on the toilet and began to pick glass out of the other man’s skin. He then washed the blood out of Jack’s shaggy hair and applied an antiseptic ointment.

As Brock began cleaning up the supplies he found himself being grabbed from behind and pushed against the wall. Jack crowded against him, hips to hips with a hand fisted in Brock’s dark hair.  
Jack had leaned into Brock’s neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin under his ear, and Brock inhaled sharply, his pants suddenly feeling awfully tight.

Brock pushed at Jack, grabbing the taller man’s chin and forcing him to meet his gaze. Jack’s green eyes snapped with a fierce energy and something else Brock couldn’t quite place. The taller man said nothing, just pressed his lips against Brock’s in a bruising kiss.

 

Brock gently pressed his lips against the pockmark scar left high up on Jack’s upper arm, a mark left behind by a bullet’s flight. A bullet that would have ripped straight through Brock’s throat had Jack not dragged him out of the way, had not used his own body as a shield, had not placed himself between Brock and danger.

Jack shifted a little and Brock quickly rolled back over and closed his eyes.

He always thought he was sneaky with this little morning ritual. He thought he was quiet enough, gentle enough, that Jack never woke up and realized what he was doing. Brock should have known better.

He felt the bed dip and the sheets rustle behind him. A gentle hand brushed down the constellation-like pattern of scars that speckled his right shoulder blade and then along the thin, whip-cord scars across his lower back that looked like they had been caused by a belt or strap. Brock shivered with sensation and memory.

The hand continued it’s path, tracing the bullet wound that had scarred the side of his thigh, and up his abdomen, teasing along the three shallow scars left by unlucky knife slashes. Gentle fingers brushed the twin pockmarks just under his clavicle where a lucky insurgent had managed to collapse Brock’s lung, causing him to nearly bleed out in the middle of a desert years before he had met Jack.

The fingers traced up his neck, lingering on the almost-invisible scars that was all the evidence left of an enemy agent who had managed to sneak up behind Brock, slipping a wire garrotte around his neck. If Jack had been a few seconds later, the doctors said that the wire would have sliced clean through Brock’s windpipe.

Brock let out the breath he didn’t know he was even holding as the fingers continued up to gently touch over the little scar buried in Brock’s eyebrow. They traced down, brushing over the white line that dissected the top of Brock’s lip, where he had busted it open as a child falling down a flight of stairs.

Those fingers paused and lightly tracing along his bottom lip, teasingly.

Brock gasped as lips caressed down the side of his ear, and sharp teeth gently bit his earlobe. The fingers took advantage, darting into Brock’s mouth, sliding over his tongue and towards the back of his throat, but not too deep to choke.

Brock sucked, his tongue working the calloused pads of the fingers, and he felt a smug satisfaction as he heard Jack pull in a sharp breath. The other man pressed his body tight up behind Brock and he felt a hardness press against his ass.

He rocked his hips back, pulling a low rumbling groan from deep within Jack’s chest. Lips pressed against the junction where his neck met his shoulders before teeth latched onto Brock’s flesh and bit hard.

Brock hissed sharply, arching backwards. Jack swiped his tongue over the mark he had just made. Brock squirmed and rolled around, hooking a leg over Jack’s hips and sitting up to straddle the bigger man.  
Jack surged up, wrapping a large arm around Brock’s lower back while using the other to keep himself propped up. Jack leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the middle of Brock’s sternum.

Brock hummed, running his hands along Jack’s muscled shoulders and up his neck. He tangled his fingers in Jack’s shaggy locks and tugged sharply.  
Jack hissed as Brock yanked his head back, exposing his throat. Brock grinned as he watched the other man’s adams apple bob as he swallowed.

Jack grinned back, a feral edge to his smile. It was a smile that showed a few too many teeth to be comforting, but Brock loved it. He loved this side of Jack, this animalistic side that came to the surface whenever the younger man fought or fucked.

More often than not Brock was more than content to let Jack manhandle him, to let him do whatever he wanted, but not today. Today Brock was in charge and he was going to make sure Jack knew it. Today, he wanted to try something different.

Brock tightened his grip on Jack’s hair and bent down to trail kisses along Jack’s jaw. Jack hummed and leaned forward a little, sliding both hands up Brock’s back.  
Brock twisted Jack’s neck to the side with a snap, teeth scraping along the man’s jaw, biting and nipping his way towards the chin.

Jack tilted his chin up, capturing Brock’s lips in a greedy kiss, hands getting grabby on Brock’s hips. Brock sucked Jack’s bottom lip into his mouth and bite down hard. His teeth scraped along Jack’s lip as the younger man hissed and pulled away.  
Jack brought a thumb to his lip, wiping away a small trickle of blood. He glanced up, startled.

Brock smirked.

He leaned forward, sucking Jack’s thumb into his mouth and swirled his tongue around the digit. Brock tasted salt and Jack inhaled sharply, that feral look back in his eyes.

“Animal,” Jack murmured as Brock let Jack’s thumb slide from his mouth with a pop.

Brock leaned in close with a chuckle and pulled Jack in for a bruising kiss. He planted a hand on Jack’s chest and pushed him down roughly. Jack’s head cracked against the headboard hard and he grunted.

Jack reached up a hand and rubbed the back of his head with a grimace.  
“Easy darlin’,” Jack scowled. Brock bared his teeth in a sharp grin and maneuvered himself so he settled in-between Jack’s legs.

Jack brought his legs up, planting his feet and bracketing Brock in on either side. He hands traced patterns along Brock’s sides.

Brock braced his arms on either side of Jack’s head, leaning in close and brushing his lips along the outside of Jack’s ear. He chuckled as Jack shivered.  
He slide a hand down Jack’s thigh, grinding his crotch against the other man with a whispered “Wanna change it up this morning, Jackie boy?”

Since Brock and Jack had first started sleeping together, Brock had always been on the receiving end. Not that he minded any, but he liked to change it up every once in a while. Jack, on the other hand, had never expressed the same interest.

Brock only brought it up once during the first year, and Jack hadn’t seemed all that enthused. He hadn’t said much of anything, but his silence was more than enough and Brock didn’t ask again.

It had been five years since then. They were different people now, things might have changed.

Jack went still, his hands freezing on Brock’s hips. He licked his lips nervously, glancing down and to the side.  
Brock sighed. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Forget it.” He pressed a kiss against Jack’s temple and moved to roll off the larger man.

Hands gripped his hips, keeping him there. Brock went still, waiting.

Jack swallowed thickly before his gaze flicked back up to Brock’s and nodded. Brock couldn’t begin to understand the mix of emotions flickering behind those green eyes but the next thing he knew, Jack’s hand was tangled in his hair and lips were pressing insistently against his.

Brock felt Jack raise his legs, wrapping them around Brock and pulling him in and down, grinding their hips together. Brock gasped against Jack’s lips at the spark of pleasure that raced through him.

He reluctantly pulled away, looking down at Jack. The younger man met his gaze briefly before glancing somewhere just past Brock’s head. He worried at his lip, a nervous habit that Brock loved to tease him about but secretly found very endearing.

“You sure?” Brock asked. Jack nodded again but Brock wasn’t satisfied. He gripped Jack’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, making the younger man meet he’s gaze.

“Need to hear the words,” Brock said firmly, not taking his eyes off Jack for an instant.

Jack swallowed again, hesitating. Brock waited patiently. The silence stretched out between them, weighing heavily. Finally, Brock couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Jack, I—,”

“Fuck me,” Jack whispered.

Brock blinked, whatever he was going to say completely gone from his mind. Actually, he was having difficulty forming any sort of words. He stared down at Jack, open mouthed.

Jack blushed, a red flush creeping up his neck, but he didn’t look away. Brock recovered, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips.

“What was that?” He teased. “I don’t think I quite heard you,”

Jack’s blush crept further up his neck, the tips of his ears flushing pink, but he reached up and pulled Brock closer, whispering against Brock’s lips.

“Fuck me.”

Brock smiled, leaning down and capturing Jack’s lips with his own. He made his way along Jack’s jaw, lips rasping over the morning stubble before nibbling at the tender spot under Jack’s ear.

“Have you ever bottomed before?” Brock inquired, licking a strip up the side of Jack’s neck. He reached over between the headboard and snatched up the lube and box of condoms they had stashed back there.

“Once, when I was younger,” Jack admitted flatly. Brock figured there was more to the story than that, but he didn’t push.

“Well, don’t you worry Jackie boy’,” Brock drawled, sitting back on his heels between Jack’s legs and running the backs of his fingers up and down Jack’s inner thigh. “I’ll take good care of you.”

Jack swallowed, shifting under Brock like he couldn't get comfortable. This wasn’t like Jack at all. Jack was usually all over Brock in bed, grabby and demanding. His hands normally roaming all over, but instead they were just sitting stiffly on Brock’s thighs.

Jack’s gaze was darting all around, briefly landing on Brock’s face before flicking to what was held in his hand. He started worrying at his lip again. Brock frowned. This wouldn’t do.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, setting the lube aside and leaning over Jack again. “We only go as far as you’re comfortable with. You say stop, we stop. Nothing to be ashamed about, alright?”

Jack nodded without hesitation, although his eyes still held some apprehension. Brock was determined to erase that doubt. He was going to make this perfect.

He teased Jack slowly, gently moving down the other man’s body. He relishing in the quiver of Jack’s muscles and the breathy pants the younger man let slip past his lips. He lingered, relishing in every second of it.

He felt Jack tense under him when he finally popped open the cap to the lube, and slowed down. He kissed his way lightly up Jack’s inner thigh, nibbling and sucking his way higher.

Brock took his time, moving deliberately, monitoring Jack’s reactions to everything. He teased, and kissed, and bit, and eased Jack slowly open. He checked in with Jack so often that the younger man finally lost patience and snapped at Brock to just to fuck him already.

Brock chuckled, rolling on a condom. He moved to flip Jack onto all fours but Jack stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“I want to see you,” Jack murmured, the blush creeping back up his neck. Brock smiled softly. He leaned down and gently pressed his lips to Jack’s. They kissed lazily, Brock’s tongue sweeping along Jack’s lip as he slipped a pillow under the younger mans hips, raising him up for a better angle.

He didn’t stop kissing Jack as he leaned forward, supporting his weight on his elbows. He didn’t stop as he moved Jack’s legs to wrap around his hips and lined himself up. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed his way inside Jack.

Jack flinched and tensed under his lips, hands gripping at Brock’s shoulders. Brock paused.  
“Easy darlin’,” he whispered, grazing his teeth along Jack’s bottom lip and tracing patterns along Jack’s thigh. He waited until Jack relaxed again under his hands.  
He met his gaze, waiting for Jack to give him the okay before slowly pushing forward again. He kept a slow, steady pressure until he felt his hips press flush against Jack’s.

Brock shuddered against Jack, taking a long, slow breath. He probably wasn’t going to be able to last very long. He pulled out a bit, shifted, and pushed in and up. Jack’s breath caught in his throat and his whole body spasmed. Brock grinned into the other man’s neck. There was the sweet spot.

They developed a rhythm, rocking slowly. Jack’s arms wrapped around Brock, fingers burying in his hair. His legs tightened around Brock’s hips and he moaned deep in his throat.

Brock felt a heat building low in his stomach. Jack’s nails raked up his back and Brock buried himself deep with a choked cry.  
He slipped a hand between them and Jack followed a minute later, clutching onto Brock hard enough to bruise.

Brock collapsed forward, arms shaking. He felt Jack’s fingers trace patterns up his back, the other mans chest heaving under him.

They stayed in each others arms for a moment longer before Brock pressed a kiss to Jack’s jaw and slid out of the man’s embrace.

He disposed of the condom in the ensuite bathroom and cleaned himself up. He returned to the bedroom with a warm washcloth. He gently wiped the cloth down Jack’s abs and dipped lower, erasing all traces left behind. Jack’s muscles jumped under his hand and Brock chuckled.

He tossed the washcloth blindly in the general direction of the laundry basket and crawled back into bed. He lay down facing Jack and frowned. Jack was worrying at his lip again.

He reached out and tugged at Jack’s bottom lip, slipping it free from between the younger man’s teeth.

“You good?” Brock asked worriedly. His concern doubled when Jack didn’t reply.

“Hey, hey, Jack,” Brock began, scooting closer to the other man, but Jack interrupted him.

“I’m good,” he said in a hushed tone. His green eyes flicked up to Brock’s face. “I’m good,” he said again.

“Okay,” Brock said, still a little unsure.

Jack seemed to pick up on it, as he grabbed Brock and pulled the smaller man on top of him. Brock settled against Jack’s chest, propping himself up on his elbows, eyebrows raised.

“Better than good,” Jack murmured, settling his hands on Brock’s hips. He leaned up, capturing Brock’s mouth. Brock felt a hand cup the back of his head and he was pulled down deeper into the kiss.

“Alright then,” Brock said once Jack had pulled away. He gazed down at the other man fondly, brushing a stray hair from his forehead.

“Think you’d be willing to change it up more often?” Brock asked. A small smile played on Jack’s lips and he nodded.

“Need to hear the words, Jackie boy,” Brock said with a smirk, mirroring his earlier comment. Jack rolled his eyes and pulled Brock down against his chest. He nuzzled Brock’s neck before whispering in his ear.

“Fuck yeah.”


	5. June, 2011

Jack woke up to sun barely peaking over the horizon and an empty bed. He rubbed his eyes, glancing around. It was unlike Brock to be up before Jack, doubly so to be up before sunrise.

He froze when he heard the telltale click of a handgun’s slide snapping into place. He peaked out from under his eyelids. No one was in the bedroom, the door leading into the living room and kitchen was closed.

Jack silently slid out from under the covers, wrapping his hand around the Glock he kept strapped to the side of his bed, hidden between the mattress and the side table.

He clicked the safety off as he cracked the bedroom door open. He let out a breath and relaxed, stepping out into the living room.

Brock briefly glanced up from where he was sitting on the couch before turning his attention back to the Ruger LCP in his hands. A drop cloth was spread out over the coffee table with a small arsenal arranged on top, along with cleaning supplies, brushes, and polishing cloths.

Jack flicked the safety on and set his gun down on the kitchen counter before heading to the coffee pot.

He grimaced as he saw the time on the microwave; 06:32.

He grabbed two mugs out from the cupboard and hazelnut creamer from the fridge. He thought it was vile, but Brock liked it so he poured a generous amount into one mug as the coffee pot whirred to life.

He glanced down, spotting one of his cameras half hidden behind a stack of mail. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It had been a while since he had indulged in his hobby.

He glanced up at Brock and lined up his shot. Brock was sitting in three-quarter profile, his hands skilfully dissecting a large handgun.

 

A few minutes later and he sat down next to Brock, passing over the second mug. Brock grunted his thanks, sliding a cleaning brush down the barrel of Jack’s Desert Eagle.

That is when Jack realized that the collection of handguns on the table were not just Brock’s but Jack’s as well. He glanced around and noticed the carry cases stacked neatly to the side. They held Brock’s Barret M82 sniper rifle, and Jack’s semi automatic M110 as well as a few others from their personal collection.

Jack finally took the time to look Brock over properly. The man’s hair was mussed, free of any product and sticking up in all directions. His eyes looked red-rimmed and tired, deep circles bruising underneath.

“How long have you been up?” Jack inquired. The stack of cleaned and serviced weaponry vastly outweighed the rest.

“Didn’t go to bed,” Brock replied shortly, focusing on the task at hand.

“You’ve been up all night?” Jack asked incredulously. Brock didn’t respond, didn’t even glance in Jack’s direction.

Jack took a long drag of his coffee, mind whirring, searching for some clue as to Brock’s odd behaviour. Nothing came to mind. Nothing had happened recently to trigger such behaviour either.

He glanced back at Brock, who was now thumbing bullets into a 9mm clip. Jack reached over and tugged the clip and the ammunitions box out of Brock’s hands. He set the onto the table and waited.

Brock sat back against the couch, staring fixedly down at his hands. Jack reached over and took one, inspecting it. Brock was missing a small chunk of skin from the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. He probably got it caught in the slide of a gun. Jack frowned. It wasn’t like Brock to be so sloppy. His fingertips were red and a little raw looking.

Jack waited.

Brock fidgeted.

Jack waited, running his thumb against Brock’s inner wrist.

“My birth parents were shit,” Brock said quietly.

Jack knew that Brock had been in foster care as a kid, bouncing through a string of neglectful homes until he finally landed with the woman who would raise him the rest of his childhood. Brock called her ‘Nona’. It meant grandmother in Italian. Jack didn’t know her real name but knew Brock was still in contact with her.

Brock had never talked about his birth parents. Jack didn't know if they were even still alive, if Brock even knew himself.

“They dumped me at my half-sisters, saying they had errands, and never came back. I was four.” Jack gripped Brock’s hand tighter, scooting closer to press his hip against the other man.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Jack said softly. Brock nodded stiffly, still looking down at his lap.

“She raised me while working three jobs while putting herself through school with night classes. Her professor would let me sleep on the couch in the office while Meg had class because she couldn’t afford a babysitter.”

Brock paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“She was killed by a drunk driver when I was six,” Brock said quietly. “Thirty years ago today.”

Jack bit off a curse. He figured the story would end in this kind of fashion, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. It also made sense now why Brock was so strict about mixing drinking and driving. He never drank if he was going to drive, and wouldn’t let Jack do so even if he had only had a couple beers.

This type of behaviour was also so perfectly like Brock. Instead of dealing with his memories and feelings in healthy ways, he did things like stay up all night cleaning their entire munitions supply, or binge his way through their alcohol cabinet. Jack was just relieved that this time it was the former.

“I don’t know why it hit me so hard this year,” Brock said quietly, rubbing a hand across his eyes.

Jack had an inkling as to why, but said nothing. Brock had been particularity run ragged as of late, coordinating mission strikes, training the new batch of recruits, juggling supply orders and training rosters, equipment acquisitions and about a dozen other things that had him losing sleep and energy.

Then on top of all of that, they had almost lost Jennings on their last mission, an undercover op in Dubai. Jack knew that Brock was fond of Jennings, moving her through STRIKE ranks faster then any other rookie in SHIELD history. It wasn’t unwarranted or unearned, Jennings was a phenomenal agent, and almost losing her hit a little too close to home.

“Come on,” Jack murmured, tugging Brock up to his feet and maneuvering him towards the bedroom. Brock didn’t even protest the manhandling, a testament to how bone-tired he was.

Jack pulled the covers over the both of them, slipping his arm under Brock’s head and pulling the smaller man to his chest. He pressed his lips against the top of Brock’s head, holding him close.

Brock said nothing, just wrapped an arm around Jack’s waist and pressed his face close to the man’s broad chest. Within minutes Jack felt his breathing shift, indicated the man was already fast asleep.

Jack yawned, thankful that it was a Sunday they had off, and closed his eyes. He listened to Brock’s soft snoring and let himself drift back to sleep.


	6. September, 2011

Jack wiped sweat from his forehead as he stepped into the apartment from his morning run. He slipped his shoes off and stepped into the kitchen.

A few minutes later and a large egg scramble with peppers, onions, and chicken was cooking on the stove and coffee dripped slowly into the pot on the side.

He turned around as Brock wondered into the kitchen in his boxers, staring intently down at his phone. He was so absorbed in it that his shoulder glanced off the fridge as he came around the corner.

Jack smirked, pouring himself a mug of coffee and sipping it as he turned around to face the other man.

“Morning,” Jack said, taking a sip. “They did it,” Brock said softly, looking back down at his phone. “They really did it.”

“Who did what?” Jack asked, confused.

“They repealed it,” Brock looked up at Jack with wide eyes. Jack only felt his confusion deepen and he raised his arms in a shrug.

“They repealed _Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell_. It’s official,” Brock whispered.

Jack took a breath. “Oh,” was all he said. Brock and Jack stared at each other for a long moment before both suddenly sprang into motion.

The coffee mug went one way, smashing against the tile as coffee spilled everywhere, and Brock’s phone went the other, screen cracking on impact. Neither men noticed as they grabbed each other, smashing their lips together in a clash on tongues and teeth.

Brock shoved Jack back against the fridge. Jack shoved back, reaching down and picking Brock up under his thighs. He walked them back, setting Brock down on the kitchen counter. Brock wrapped his legs around the taller man, pulling him in close.

Brock leaned down and brushed his nose against Jack’s, slowing things down. Jack settled his hands on Brock’s hips, nuzzling up against the other man. He pressed a kiss against the corner of Brock’s mouth and pulled back, taking him in.

Jack smiled softly and ran his hands along Brock’s legs. Brock smiled back and leaned in, easing his lips over Jack’s. Gentle kisses progressed back to their earlier level of urgency and they began to explore each other greedily.

Jack slide his hands up Brock’s shirt as the smaller man pushed his sweatpants down his hips. Jack kicked them aside and stepped back only long enough to pull off his sweatshirt. Brock barely waited long enough for him to get his head out of the shirt before he was grabbing at Jack again, pulling him in close.

What followed was definitely not food safe and got interrupted part way through as the burning egg scramble set off the smoke alarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the tease of the Proposal tag that showed up briefly and then disappeared. I got my years mixed up! I will say that if that tag excited you, stay tuned in to year 2012! The first chapter will be up within the week!


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